Tag: short short story

It’s the middle of the night and I have to run around the house. It’s routine. I don’t care if people are sleeping. It’s routine. I stretch my legs and back ready to dash. It doesn’t matter if I run into the wall or knock over a photo. That will be taken care of tomorrow. Should I jump on the bed? No! The counter is better. That’s where the food is kept. I run, picking up speed too fast. The scratching is loud against the floor. My ears pick up shifting in the other room. Uh oh. I quickly slide into the kitchen, careful not to be caught. The lights are off so I’ll blend in. Jumping on the counter I accidentally knock over a cereal box. Thud. It’s tempting to knock down the cup left in front of me. I stretch my arm. Should I? Maybe I’ll slowly push it off. Slow. Slow. I watch as the cup falls off the counter. Thud. The footsteps are quick. The lights flick on.

Blaire Donovan adjusted the black pointy witch hat on her head in the body mirror in front of her. With her green eyes, she examined her pale skin and her long black straight hair that curled at the ends. She wore a black baby doll dress with poufy sleeves, black tights, and black combat boots. It looked no different than her everyday wear, just today she included the hat. Blaire started singing along to a Blink 182 song that was playing on her vintage record player when something caught her attention in the mirror. Her black cat, Salem, was knocking bobby pins off her dresser. There was a ping every time one hit the floor. She watched through the mirror as he moved towards a glass of water. His tiny black paw was raised… ready to push it off.

“Salem!” she quickly turned to shoo him off the dresser, but he jumped and dodged. Knocking over mini ceramic candy corns and scattering polaroid pictures of Blaire and her friends everywhere. She chased Salem around the room, her boots scuffing against the dark hardwood floor. Salem jumped onto her bed and so did Blaire, crumpling the black comforter. Salem jumped off skidding against the black and white striped wall, making his way out of Blaire’s room.

“Salem! Get back here!” Blaire ran towards her door and jumped back when she saw her little brother standing there with a creepy clown mask. He didn’t move. He just stood there. Blaire was used to this.

Blaire put her hands on her hips, “Seriously, Dex. You got to do more than that to scare me.”

Blaire walked out of her room, pushing on her little brother’s shoulder, getting a ‘Hey!’ out of him. She walked down the stairs, holding onto the black stairwell. She could feel her brother creeping behind her but she didn’t have the patience to mess with him.

“Kids! Dinner’s ready!” Blaire heard her mom’s voice chime through the house. The Donovan’s had dinner as a family every night. It was a tradition.

“Coming!” Blaire yelled just as the doorbell rang. She was confused because no one ever comes over at 7 o’clock. All of Blaire’s friends knew she would be having dinner.

Blaire walks to the door. It was red in contrast to the house that was fully black and white. She turns the knob, opening it to a boy around her age, probably 17 or 18.

“Hi, is Blaire here?”

Blaire looked at him, head to toe. He had blonde hair and blue eyes. His eyes were darting back and forth. A light blue polo shirt covered what could be a muscular body and then dark blue jeans that didn’t match his red Converse. His feet kept moving, he couldn’t stand still.

“I’m Blaire. What do you want?” Blaire crossed her arms and raised her right eyebrow. She started tapping her foot when he didn’t answer right away.

The boy’s eyebrows scrunched together and he looked out into the street and then back at Blaire. “Uhh, are you a witch? I mean, it’s cool if you are? I… it’s February? Well, that’s not why I came here but…”

“It’s always Halloween in the Donovan house.” Blaire laughed at his nervousness. She shut the door before he could say anymore and headed to the dining room.

It was in May 1959. I had just turned ten years old. I spent hours trying to find the most perfect flowers to place in my hair. My mama called me a flower child. It was the first time I’ve ever heard that name. I assumed it was because of all the daisies scattered in my knotted hair. I remember running in my backyard. It seemed like a giant field then. I would run and run before I fell to the grass to watch the clouds go by. No one would ever catch me inside. In there, the news was on. Always showing war and violence. My papa would only yell at the screen. I would have the biggest frown and mama would have to tickle me until I smiled again. She would then pull me outside to lie in the grass to watch the stars appear and for the crickets to sing. She would say, “Be bold, my little flower child. You can change the world.”

1963 was the worst year of my life. It was April when I heard my parents yelling from inside. I knew I shouldn’t have gone in, but I had to. My mama was screaming on the couch while papa was showing her his new shotgun. He had it aimed right at her. I walked closer, pulling a daisy out of my hair. I placed the small delicate flower in the barrel. I didn’t think he was gonna shoot… but he did… twice. Once in my shoulder. Once in mama’s head. I remember lying on the floor, watching my little daisy burn to ashes. I don’t think I saw him again after that.

I was 18 now. The year was 1967. The crowd was full of people that looked like me. We were screaming, “make love, not war!” over and over again. The police had come to break us up. They were stood in a line. No one stopped screaming the chant when I walked closer to the man in uniform. His gun was pointed towards me. His blue eyes were growing wide with every step I took. I pulled the single daisy I had from behind my ear. I placed it in the barrel. He didn’t shoot this time… instead, he smiled and lowered his gun, “You’re bold, flower child.” I laughed, “I know. I learned from my mama.”